What Day is this?
by kazumigirl
Summary: John Watson has a mystery for Sherlock Holmes-what special day is it? When Holmes forgets, well, things are less than case-closed...my first SH fic! SLASH alert


**What day is this?**

Watson hated to think he was pouting. Pouting was something lovesick women did, and the doctor would sooner eat his own hat than compare himself to a lovesick woman. Even still, he couldn't but feel like sulking, just a little.

They ate breakfast in silence. It was funny, but not all unexepected that they'd wound up together. John thought it had been cold feet-but watching Mary walk down the aisle in her white dress that flowed in shades of ivory and silver, he knew what it really was. She had practically been glowing as she said 'I do' and the words that returned from his lips were 'I don't'.

"Huh." Watson glanced at the date on his newspaper. "January Twelfth."

"Indeed." Holmes hardly looked up from his latest scientific journal.

"It feels like something important happens today," the doctor threw out casually. "I just can't put my finger on it."

"No, you're thinking of tomorrow," the detective said all in one breath.

Watson's brows furrowed. "Beg pardon?"

"Tomorrow is the thirteenth," Holmes explained slightly impatiently. "And a Friday at that, which isn't really of any importance to us because bad luck is in no way associated with logic."

"Right." Watson stood up, snapping his paper. "Well then, I'm off."

"Where?" His partner kept his gaze on his journal.

"Oh, I don't know," Watson said, shaking his head. "Perhaps a pub, the boxing match."

"I thought you put those days behind you," Holmes chimed, and a bit more saracastically, "_again_."

Watson didn't even bother with a comeback, and hurried out the door. In a matter of hourss, he sat in a lonely pub, one beer after another. And this is where he slouched, pouting. It was ironically unfortunate that he had such a high tolerance to liquor. There was no _buzz_ to make him forget what his own-dare he think it-_lover_ had forgotten.

He skipped the boxing match entirely and headed home, a parcel of untouched fish and chips in his hand. He threw it out on the street and wiped the greasy residue on the sides of his pants.

"Where have you been all day?" Holmes asked when he returned, plucking away at his violin.

"Out," Watson replied, briskly moving past him.

"Something troubles you." _Pluck, pluck, pluck._

"Is it my tightened shoulders, my brisk walk, or my quick speaking?" Watson spat sarcastically, having heard these conversations before. "Take your pick."

"Well, all of the above and the ale on your breath and grease on your trousers," Holmes said, pointing his fiddlestick. "You hardly drink that much-aware of your unfortunate alcohol tolerance, and you complain that fried fish is worse than mutton fat."

"I'm not _troubled_," Watson growled, taking a handkerchief to the grease stains. "I'm _upset_."

"What happened?" Sherlock stopped playing, a sliver of concern finally crossing his face.

"You really are such a _brilliant_ detective, aren't you?" The doctor crossed his arms and shook his head. He chuckled, but they both knew nothing was funny. "You've solved some of London's greatest mysteries, stopped some of their most notorious criminals, and even deduced that the eve of my wedding I would devote my life to you instead of my future bride."

"Well," Holmes shrugged one shoulder. "I just know you, my dear Watson."

"Do you?" Watson bit his bottom lip in a cross between a scowl and a grin. "What's my blood type?"

"A-" Pluck, pluck, pluck.

"Dry straw." Pluck. "We figured that out some years ago hiding in that abandoned barn from those Hungarian jewel thieves."

"When's my birthday?"

The violin suddenly made a slippery, scraping sound. Holmes looked up. "Your birthday?"

"Yes, the day I was born," Watson explained sarcastically. "What's the date?" He waited, and when the detective did not answer, he nodded. "Mmhmm." He stormed out of the room and headed for the study.

He stumbled a bit when he opened the door. The room glowed faintly from the light of a million candles arranged all over. In the center of the room was a medium sized oak table-one from the dining area. An array of food littered the tabletop. Breads, cheese, fruits, meats, oils, and wine. Gladstone was parked beside one of the two chairs, panting for scraps, dressed in a tiny tuxedo. Watson blinked several times.

"January twelfth, January twelfth..." Holmes appeared beside him, tapping his fiddlestick against his head. "Come to think of it, that day does ring a bell."

Watson walked over to the table, studying the feast. Holmes was right behind him. "Made it myself," he said.

The doctor furrowed his brows and the detective cleared his throat, correcting, "Well, I didn't really make it, but it was made in our house."  
Watson shook his head. "You bastard." He turned to Holmes and said, "You knew."

"Pretending to not know was the only sure method of getting you out of the house, "Holmes explained, taking a grape from the table and popping it in his mouth. "I timed everything precisely to your stalking off and staying gone." He snapped his fingers and dug around in his pocket, retrieving something wrapped in crinkled paper. Wordlessly, he handed it the doctor.

Watson unwrapped it and his face softened. It was a shiny, gold pocket watch. He smiled and ran his fingers over the cover. "It looks just like the one I lost when we chased those kidnappers around London."

"Your grandfather's," Holmes added. "And it is the watch."

Watson stared at him. "You found it?"

"I placed a hefty reward on its safe return," Holmes corrected him. "Of course it came back in less that perfect condition, but luckily, I was able to restore it before today."

Watson only shook his head, smiling. He looked at Holmes, and closed the short distance between them, and they kissed for several seconds.

When they pulled away, Holmes cleared his throat and gestured towards the table. "Shall we eat?"

"Certainly." Watson sat down. He looked up at Holmes, who still stood, beaming modestly. "What?"

"I wore a jacket," Holmes said proudly. "Do you like it?"

"It looks familar," Watson smiled, shaking his head. "Is it mine?"

"It's ours." Holmes sat down across from him.

"What am I allergic to?"

The evening ended with nothing less than fine wine, violin music, and blissful lovemaking. Lying in bed, Holmes rolled over and whispered in Watson's ear, "Happy birthday, John."

"Hm?" The other man was hardly awake.

Holmes only kissed him in reply, and rolled back over to turn off the oil lamp resting beside the bed.

The End...


End file.
